


The Purpose of Wine

by notHarold



Series: Cooking and Eating With Velvet [2]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Blake is only briefly mentioned but she is still there, Cooking Lessons, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Gen, I realized too late that I could've made this shipfic, Underage Drinking, if I make a v2, maybe v2 will have that romantic goodness, v2 romantic goodness cancelled, wait i have an different love triangle in mind for this continuity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-14 18:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17513885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notHarold/pseuds/notHarold
Summary: Velvet gets dragged into teaching Weiss how to provide for herself and drink recreationally.





	The Purpose of Wine

**Author's Note:**

> > "the wine isn’t there to drizzle on the pan, it’s there to chug to cope with being an adult"
> 
> — CassBurger, Velvserver, April 23, 2018 

Most people could take even the worst things in stride. Velvet knew that for a fact. It was hard not to when no one leapt to her aid when an underclassman started tugging on her ears and demeaning her in the middle of the cafeteria. (She refused to dignify him with a name or grant him a title tying him to her.) To be fair, she knew she was guilty of it too. She hadn’t defended herself until he crossed **The Line**.

It remained uncrossed when someone knocked at nine sharp on the morning of the first day of winter break. All she wanted to do was sleep in and laze around in her pajamas until noon. Was that so much to ask? Her warm bed encouraged her to ignore the knock. Her soft sheets assured her that they would leave in time. Let them think she was gone.

 **The Line** was toed when knuckles rapped on the door five minutes later. It was The Forsaken Hours. Who would dare tarnish the time of rest with such an obnoxious noise? It couldn't be Professor Goodwitch. These were her hours of prayer to the Great Pillow. Such worship could not be interrupted, certainly not when the opportunity to perform it came to her so rarely. No. It could only be a freshman who had yet to see Velvet’s iron heel in action. Or a case of mistaken identity. Or a lapse in memory. Had she asked for service? No, she did away with the entire practice the previous year.

Ten minutes of sweet silence smoothed over her irritation. There was no third call for her attention. Toes retreated from **The Line**. No heads would fly today. No blood would spill. Her scroll buzzed, a message received and, while not critical, not ignored. Few were the individuals with her contact information.

It was a rare message from Blake. Velvet flicked the message open. She had no reason to snub her. If Blake thought it was important enough to message her instead of seeking her later in the day, then who was she to downplay it? Who was she if she were to abandon a friend?

_Help, my friend will _starve_ —_

**The Line** was crossed. Velvet jumped out of bed. She tore the door open. She slipped on a sock. That is to say, her foot met a sock, and that sock slid on the carpet, and she tumbled. In hindsight, she should have slowed down. Or cleaned up the dorm the minute Coco, Fox, and Yatsuhashi went home for break. On the other hand, she could not deny that smashing her face into the dorm room opposite of theirs (thankfully unoccupied for break) woke her up faster than coffee. Also, Coco would have something to say if Velvet moved one of her perfectly stowed socks (Velvet had no idea where its other half was or if it even had one). The only thing that saved Coco’s sock was the distraction provided by the wool, cat-themed pair rushing to Velvet’s side.

“Velvet!” It looked like Velvet’s stumble slapped the sleep right off of Blake’s face even if her pajamas and designer eyebags said she wanted nothing more than to flop back down into bed again. Her eyes flickered over Velvet as the fallen faunus found her footing again. “Do—”

Blake squeaked when her hands were caught. She jerked back, stumbling and pulling Velvet over her. There was no keeping the second-year from pinning her to the floor. “Who’s starving?” Velvet demanded. A shift of fabric against fabric perked her ears. Her attention snapped to its source. Another girl, Blake’s friend (teammate, the madwoman who rushed out her finals in a drug-induced haze instead of requesting an extension, _Schnee_ ), waited in the kind of casual wear that Coco would approve for a day out in Vale. “Is it you?” Velvet’s eyes narrowed. “Wait, aren’t you filthy rich?”

“Debatable,” the girl answered with a pinched expression. _No,_ her arms twitched as though they wanted to defend her. It didn’t make sense to Velvet, but it didn’t matter. “I wanted to learn how to cook, and Blake thought that I should meet you,” the girl— Weiss, that was her name— continued. _I need help making something edible._ She crossed her arms. _I was too embarassed to say anything until this morning._ “I’m not entirely sure why.”

“Because food is my religion,” Velvet said as she stood up and pulled Blake to her feet. So too was sleep, but sleep came second to sustenance. She chuckled. “I’d say that the kitchen is my temple, but last week's barbeque was more my style.”

The reminder, brief as it was, drew a loud grumble from Weiss’ stomach and painted a blush over her face. Velvet smiled, her mind already making plans and glad that a surprise encore had been planned in advance. No one would mind the extra pair of hands helping out either.

Lessons and meals went quick. Oatmeal and fruit for breakfast, shopping for groceries in Vale soon after, roasted vegetables for lunch, and every snack and prep activity Velvet could think of in the afternoon. For dinner, Velvet ramped up the difficulty, assigning Weiss to fry fish (Blake's choice) over coals (they had made too much for Beacon's storage bins) and serve it with a light sauce.

"Okay, _now_ you can pour in the stock," Velvet instructed, hovering nearby. What space on the grill Weiss didn't take up with her pan she appropriated for chicken thighs and steaks to share.

Weiss frowned. "Not the wine?" she checked before hesitantly opening the boxed stock. A glance to Blake explained nothing. "Why do we have it then?" It was a cheaper unlabelled bottle that Velvet had insisted upon.

"It's there to chug and deal with adulthood and your dad being a bitch," Velvet answered as she cycled her meats off of the grill. Weiss stared at her. "What? Am I wrong? Is your daddy not being a big whiny baby and starving you because he wants your attention?"

"He's has the power to make all of our lives hell," Weiss deadpanned. "And you're calling him a baby." Velvet nodded, and after thinking about it, Weiss could not find it in herself to disagree. "You realize that I'm underage, right?"

"You're a student at a hunter academy," Velvet argued, snapping her tongs to emphasize her words. "You make your bed on the border between civilization and the wild. When grimm attack, you'll be risking your life to fight back." She gestured in the direction of Vale. "The Council won't care about the difference between you and a veteran hunter, and if they can treat you like a licensed hunter when you're still in training, then they can damn well let you drink yourself unconscious if you damn well please."

Blake and Weiss stared at Velvet, stunned by her short rant. "If that doesn't convince you, look," the second-year pointed to a first-year team dealing with Professor Goodwitch. "They've more than enough liquor to last everyone all break and what's our dear Deputy Headmistress doing?"

"Buying whiskey," Weiss observed slack-jawed as Professor Goodwitch handed over a stack of lien and used her semblance to float five huge bottles after her as she turned away. "Annnnd she's drinking from one of them."

"Is no one going to say anything about how she's just walking around in her pajamas?" Blake cut in. "I'm not hallucinating that, am I?"

Weiss looked between her teammate and Professor Goodwitch, now helping herself to another team's cooking. "No, you're not," she answered.

And then she started chugging. If Glynda Goodwitch (and the student handbook if she thought about it) said nothing against it, then who was she to defy convention and stay sober while reconciling the image of a straight-laced instructor and the garishly colored mooch floating between groups. Professor Port managing a smoker she could understand. Professor— Doctor Oobleck assisting and tending a beer she could accept. But Professor Goodwitch acting like a zombie in pastel, cartoon-themed pajamas? No thank you. Take a hike, sobriety.

**Author's Note:**

> I apparently have scraps and outtakes for this. I might throw them into a separate collection or tack them on as another chapter for this. Dunno yet.


End file.
